Short Story / Nevermore: Poisoned in the Wits of a New York Windsor Fog
It was somewhere in the 13th hour of a mind numbing experiment with a credit card worth of McMullen ale in a place called the Windsor Castle. I recollect from my notes, it had taken a good while to swill thru the foam of that crap and my nose and face were covered in it like some gay face mask you only see on old Mancunian dilettantes in back alley modeling agencies. The beer itself resembled the jagged carpet on the floor and the tart drinking with me actually cut her lip on a particularly violent toast to the landlord of the place.
“That god damn beer attacked her!” I screamed. “Call a doctor! And what’s with that raven flying over in the corner?”
There was a huge black beast flapping it’s Neanderthal wings to the Ballad of the Woggler’s Mooly. The beak on this thing hissed and snapped like an electric carving knife! It’s eyes moved in opposite directions; spinning and spitting blue flames at the clienteles. No one but me thought this was strange.
“What raven?”
I pointed with my pen, but it was gone. Embarrassment. Delusion. Good beer. “Why, I was only testing the reflexes of the bar maid.”
“And?”
I couldn’t answer. There was a huge ass raven to deal with and it was on the loose. Or was it a rook? Damn it! Which one? I had dealt with rooks, but the raven is perhaps the smartest bird known to man and, in some countries, linked to wolves. Now this thing was hiding. It was waiting. I had the fear that this hairy bird would follow me on the route home and spring an attack at just the moment of amity. The claws would no doubt tear into my neck while its tongue did unmentionable things to my ears. I could see the aftermath perfectly:
“Yes officer. I am a bit shaken up.”
“Do you want to report a rape, sir?”
“By God, NO! I suddenly feel better. In fact, I might have encouraged the whole ordeal. My fault. I can be a tease. Can’t blame the poor bum.”
“Bum, sir?”
“I love London. Good times.”
“Sir, you’re in New York city.”
He was right. How did I get here? And why were my silly flash-forwards correcting me? The thought paralyzed me for a brief moment, but it moved thru me like a case of bad indigestion and I was fine. Focus! The bird had to be eliminated.
“What bird? Where is she?” cried my bleeding date. I had forgotten about her completely and she was now something of a squashed grape stuck to the bar.
“Holy shit!” I yelped. “You’re a cheap date!” She was trying to smile but did not have the proper amount of blood alcohol grouping to move any unnecessary organs. “You Mancunians are all the same! Always cutting your lips and then smashing your heads into perfectly good mahogany.”
“I’m from Jersey,” she drooled.
The landlord did nothing. He was timing her death with his watch and laying it on me, “Forget her, eh? She’s a bit of a bean flicker anyway.” He made a nasty impression of a clam on some sort of a hedonistic holiday. His tongue oscillated in all directions!
“Enough of that!” His open mouth was attracting flies from all over the back streets. “Keep that thing away from me!” I backed away like a well thought-out crab. My eyes never left that bastard even with my back against the wall.
“Where am I?” I asked.
Just then, it hit me! Not any particularly gallant idea about anything, but a damn teapot. Over the head! I looked up hoping to see that other Mancunian; the one with the nice figure. I could have sworn she was still there, but alas it was some barefooted street person ordering tequila. Strange. I was losing consciousness. Or was it just the McMullen? Or was I still drinking McMullen? No. It was scotch!
I could no longer lift my right eye, but my left seemed to work well until it began shuttering like an old time movie projector in a high school gym. What the hell? Images began to fill my balmy eye:
There was my time in Singapore eating tangerines with a clubbed foot whore named Paul. She was slurping cough syrup form a straw and doing crossword puzzles with a pencil glued to her little toe. We had hopes of getting married, but she had been captured by Czech gypsies on vacation there and smuggled into the desert for cigarettes.
Then, I saw Boise, Idaho. No reason. Never been there.
But, finally the fear circled overhead. It’s dark shadow fell on me and would not leave. In my vision, indoors, outdoors, under blankets, in and out of taxis and thru fields of potatoes; it was with me. From the crackling sky, the words “nevermore” rang out like a transsexual calling out numbers at a bingo parlor.
I dug into my pockets and tore into my reserves and covered my ears with multicolored contraceptives screaming, “Go away you post-op raven! Fly away and bother someone else!”
The vagrant splashed a drink in why face! A tiny brown worm sat on the end of my nose and blew a bubble at my open eye. Was he wearing a sombrero?
She slapped me hard against my left cheek. “Wake up you bell-end! You’ve been poisoned! There is no raven! The only bird is that bitch who has my slippers.”
“Slippers?” I asked.
“Yes. And you are going to help me find them!”
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
Vagrant? Vagrant?? I forgive you. Naturally, I think this is an absolute wizardly gem of a piece. I think it gives the impecunious sailor’s side of the story very well and explains perfectly how he managed to almost be beheaded by the waitress (I refer to the vagrant comment once again). My favourite has to be Paul, the clubbed foot whore – masterful! But…really….vagrant?/
- add/view comments (4)
Showing 1 - 1 of 1
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
